I hope that you'll leave someday.
No matter where I go, what's my address, how much I have in my wallet, for whom I'm surrounded, what I'm doing, if I'm having fun or not: you'll be there, there with your relentlessness haunting without-why presence, quietly watching me in the darkest corner of my room; digging deeply with your eyes a hole in my chest that I, religiously, insist to silt up with the many different kinds of debris that interest me through the day, I hope that you'll leave someday.
Sadly, I don't think that you'll leave someday: your neural circuit has already firmly solidified, desire-pathed, deeply engraved in my prefrontal cortex, you're irresistible as skin picking, you're racing thoughts, you're obsession-compulsion in its primitive state. I honestly don't know why I keep you, why I let you rest at night in the corner of my room; pragmatically, you're useless to me: your supposed comfort is more ephemeral than your sticky shadow, your solution purposeless and nuclear. The truth is that one day I let you in (actually, I don't know if you've always been there and I just couldn't see you in the darkness) and I nurtured you with my repetitive and empty-of-meaning problems, I gave you space and attention in my ruminations, personalized you, gave you an identity (and ironically, a purpose), and as a reward, I received your sempiternal, opportunistic, vulturelike presence which unfortunately I must adapt to live with in a Cold War-style way because is always hoping for a misstep to try to devour me.